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In Defense of the Passion Killer.

We love to hate them. We berate them and revile them. Yet we’ve all got one hiding in the wardrobe somewhere – that one item of leisure-/under-/sleepwear that makes our other half go spare. Yes, today we’re going to talk about passion killers, which are still very much alive and kicking lingerie-clad butt.

Those of you who have been following the blog for a while know that MM has kept one foot firmly anchored in her youth, so you will not be surprised to learn that my wardrobe also harbours a grown-up reminder of my childhood: my lovely, warm, terry towelling onesie – aka union suit, sleep suit or footed pyjamas.

My onesie and I go together like ramma lamma lamma a ding gadi dinga dong, like ketchup and chips, like Shrek and Fiona… or in PF’s eyes, like salmonella poisoning and sushi. The poor man rolls his eyes every time as he realises that he has drawn the short strawer in the drawer draws. When he claps eyes on it, his face falls – imagine Brigitte Bardot greeted with a pair of mink-lined suede slippers and a plateful of coq au vin on her arrival home.

On chilly winter nights, I sometimes wriggle it on. I instantaneously become a tellytubby – just add a pair of 1980s wobbly antennae, and I’d be taken on by the BBC in a flash. It is a real onesie complete with feet, meaning that I can lope around the house like the BFG without getting cold tootsies.

Robert negotiated with Gladys, but to no avail: she’d only consider giving up on the onesie if he threw that stinking pipe away. (Photo credit: x-ray delta one)

Here are its advantages:

It is warm and comfy, and reminiscent of a cosy, reassuring childhood.

No draughts get in, unlike skimpy, feminine night attire with little spaghetti straps (which is very pretty, but about as heat-efficient as dressing a giraffe in a hand towel).

The poppers down the front are the ideal protection from the dreaded handus mannus, a common predatory species that roams at night, preying on innocent women as they sleep.

It also has disadvantages:

It gets PF mad and he sulks.

It doesn’t have a hood to keep the cold out of my ears.

It was designed by a man for a man, so the lack of strategically placed poppers is the cause of long-winded negotiations with Mr B, aka my bladder, in the middle of the night. Like having to decide against drinking before you drive, an uninterrupted night’s sleep in a onesie entails the sacrifice of any ritual bedtime bucket of herbal tea/bottle of wine (delete as necessary).

At this point in proceedings I can already hear some readers of this blog howling in protest and clamouring their support for the long-suffering PF. I would argue that the alternative to sleeping in the same bed as a wife masquerading as Yogi Bear is the sobering prospect of ice-cold female feet on male shins. Things could be worse, too: I have yet to acquire the matching bed socks, fluffy slippers, horn-rimmed specs, rollers and hairnet. And if I really wanted to be mean, I could add an avocado facemask and two slices of cucumber for good measure.

I freely admit that a onesie is not the most appealing attire. But let’s face it, “attractive” always seems to go hand in hand with “uncomfortable”. So it is par for the course that comfortable clothes are about as pleasing to the male eye as King Kong modelling the latest line in G-strings from Victoria’s Secrets. I have concluded that comfort and attractiveness are fatally and diametrically opposed, which kind of links up with the saying that we have to suffer to be beautiful.

Maurice had complained about his wife’s fluffy bedsocks for the last time. (Photo credit: photos.juliechen)

Lastly, onesies make for safe sleep, particularly when combined with their household textile alter ego, the flannel sheet. Confused? Let’s extrapolate. I once spent a night in a friend’s guest room. The waterbed had been kitted out with delicate satin sheets -irrefutably the ultimate in sosphisticated kip equipment. I was shortly to discover that my host had pushed the boat out in more ways than one – every time I rolled over I was tossed in three-foot troughs. Forget the Moody Blues: the hair-raising night in white satin that ensued was along the lines of Géricault’s “Raft of the Medusa“, but solo and dressed in M&S satin pj’s. I slid across the deck like a walrus launched across an ice-hockey field, grasping desperately for a grip on something as the night lit up with the spectacular storm of static electricity.

Now compare this with the honest simplicity of a onesie and flannel sheets. The flannel locks tight with the onesie, the heat stays in the bed, and hey presto: velcro effect. Welcome to the wonderful world of double-sided flannel-tape. You can sleep, toasty warm, in absolute security.

In conclusion… we love to hate the passion killer, but it’s not said its last word just yet. Comfort, nostalgia, warmth, safety. I rest my case. Embrace the passion killer, my friends.

They remind me all too much of the coms seen on washing lines in my youth…complete with back flap.

For winter evenings in France I had a woollen hooded djellaba bought in Tunisia, nattily teamed with Turkish socks…..no wonder we had few callers at night….imagine coming to the door and being greeted by a cross between Death and Lady Caroline Lamb.

I’m sure that the Djellaba can be drop-dead sexy with the matching Alibaba pointy slippers and the appropriate starlette pout. Hmm, may give those Turkish socks a whirl over my onesie feet for added warmth 🙂

Your description of the advantages of a onesie plus flannelette sheets had me howling here, MM. 🙂 I’ve never had the opportunity to try one, probably because |I so much predate the invention of the babygro, of which the onesie is of course the grown-up version. Blow what PF says, warm feet are much more important. 🙂

If laughter is the best calorie burner I must have just lost at least half a stone! 😀 You had me in stitches MM! Love the reference to ‘handus Mannus’ and your description of your fight with the satin sheets and water bed was hilarious!
P.S. Now have the song from Grease in my head… remembered forever as shooh bop shah wah dah wah dah yeeh peeh teeh boom teh boom, chang chang changitty chang shah bop that’s the way it should be…woah yeah! 😀

Yes! I hold the key to losing weight without giving up on food. I am the master of the Universe (*insert evil laugh here*). No, seriously, glad you enjoyed it! I do like that song but it was a bugger choosing the right lyrics and writing them down. All in a day’s work (or not work. Ur hum).

Oh, those are big back home right now. I have been toying with getting one or two on the trip back! That would be fun to break out and show my Serb friends… and handy for dressing up as a baby for next Halloween!

Afraid my bed is just too “hot” for a onsie.:) I did laugh when you wrote it promoted “safe sleep”. Better than a condom! A real passion killer, but that is not what you actually meant. Great post, so very entertaining.

So glad you are nice and snug in your onesie but the “Velcro effect” you describe has me on the verge of a panic attack. You must be a calm and peaceful sleeper, not a whirling dervish like moi. I’d get all tied up and wake up with the screaming meemies! Sweet dreams. lol

If you’re worried about getting into a flannel and terry-towelling tie, try a cotton onesies and cotton sheets. You’re a whirling dervish when you sleep? Coo! the people parked next to you guys must wonder what you get up to in you dreams!

OKAY ! I just laughed so loud in my hotel room that they must be wondering IF “I slid across the deck like a walrus launched across an ice-hockey field, grasping desperately for a grip on something as the night lit up with the spectacular storm of static electricity.””

Funniest thing I read all day! I cannot say I am a fan of onesies but perhaps the compromise would be sexy thongs underneath on Friday nights ?? Send him a text alluding to what they look like …………or not.

Hi Kathryn! I’m laughing imagining you laughing. Don’t you just love WordPress for the infectious nature of blogging reactions? Sexy thongs undeneath? I’d be running around in circles like a dog with a pan tied to its tail. 🙂 And Friday night is Pizza night, try feeling feminine and gorgeous with a belly full of fours cheeses… ! Glad you liked the pic – Gargamel had great fun watching me hanging up dry laundry and taking photos of it 😀

Onesies can be bought in H&M in Italy but I must confess that I can’t imagine ANY of my Italian friends wearing one. In fact I can’t even imagine any Italians wearing any form of nightwear, it would be far too casual. Maybe they actually sleep in Prada scarfs and leather boots??

My children have a delightful selection of onesies for all occasions – they come in particularly handy for keeping toasty when camping.

See, PN, you CAN buy them in Italy – thanks for the info! Maybe we should have a whip-round and get a onesue sorted for Mrs Sensible (PN’s wife) in time for Christmas.
I’m sure that there must be a designer onesie for the Italians – maybe Versace do them, with matching fluffy bedsocks and a silk scarf.

At the turn of the 19th century my grand mother was wearing these long “chemises de nuit” going down to her feet.
PF will be happy to know that they were fitted with a conveniently placed slot bearing the Provençal name of “fenestroun”….

🙂 My daughter has a onesie complete with hood ears & feet – I’d love to love it but I think I’m the wrong shape to benefit from its comforts – too long body, too short legs;) I do have the equivalent in flannelette PJs though – pink with black polka dots and sheer night time bliss!! I think though I’d happily trade them in at least once for a go in that waterbed & electric satin…your hilarious description makes me think it would be a fabulous adventure, especially if the whole family got in at once ….. I’m chuckling at the thought!!!

Yeah!! Waterbed party – bring your armbands and a bottle of Merlot!!! 😀 Can I come if I wear my onesies??? I am very jealous at the idea of a onesie with ears. I thoroughly approve of your spotty flannel pj’s; I will be round to steal them off your line shortly (unless you have shortened the legs on them, of course).

I’ve never sen a onesie on sale in Italy – they’re probably illegal here. Based on relentless and fruitless shopping trips looking for warm bedclothes, I think you have to dress like a “French tart” to go to bed with Latin Lovers, apparently.
I have had to improvise my own thermal bedclothes and as a result poor Hubby once asked me “Do you HAVE to dress like a clown before coming to bed?” and then proceeded to remove and confiscate all the offending garments I had on. Which was all the garments I had on.
I have to admit the idea of wearing a babygrow suit to bed appeals, though the lack of any access hatch for nocturnal piddling would be a show stopper for me. Any self-respecting Italian husband would figure out you have to bare your boobs and pretty much all the rest of it to do the business, and would simply follow me into the bathroom. This would of course completely negate the contraceptive properties of the onesie, I think.
I’ll stick with the clown suit!

Onesies ARE for sale in italy – H&M do them, ask Barbed words for more details.
You had me laughing about being followed to the bathroom to get the better of the onesie- Frenchmen are the same 🙂 But given the the temperature in our house in winter, he knows he’s not on to a winner 🙂

Yeah, my problem is that coldness causes erect nipples and most men think that only means one thing. You’re saying NO but your nipples are saying YES. You tease!
H&M in Sicily is useless, they only stock the midget sizes. They apparently haven’t realised, up in Finland or wherever H&M comes from, that many Sicilians are actually giant fat whoppers. I shall have to write a stiff email to head office about their Palermo store, before it goes out of business.

A stiff email. LOL 🙂 I think that you should crank the heating up. What does the Sicilian MIL wear to bed? Ah, we may have a get-out clause for you here. Don’t tell me she wears French tart stuff, please.
I remember trying to buy clothes in a high street store in Milan, the biggest size was a 12. All the other shoppers came up to my waist, and that was with stiletto heels. Gulliver moment, check.